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by ljs



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 14:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5544170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An episode tag for "The Husbands of River Song."</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He knew what she liked, her Doctor.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

Arm in arm, the Doctor and River stood and listened to the singing Towers for a while. She was almost overwhelmed by his nearness, his dearness, his newfound ability to speak so clearly of love without actually using the words (because he was, after all, still and always the Doctor). But the music grounded her, lifted her, brought the tears and dried them in the same breath.

He knew what she liked, her Doctor.

When the wind dropped and the Towers’ song hushed to a sweet hum, he ushered her to their table. He had a glass of champagne with her – this face and body liked a bit of a drink, unlike his previous self; she should have realized about the regeneration when she’d actually found fresh brandy in the console room – and then they shared a meal. True, they had a slight domestic when he told her what he’d done with the diamond, because how _dare_ he, it hadn’t been his mission, and she _had_ intended to give it back (probably), but then he told her to whom he’d given the treasure and what he’d done with it, and all was well again.

(She also checked her bank balance, and the transferred money from Scratch was still there. Well, she had _at least_ twenty-four years, and money was always useful.)

After coffees, he rose and held out his hand. “To the Tardis, honey?”

That sweet word in his new, undeniably sexy voice almost brought back her tears. But the twinkle in his eyes forestalled any such embarrassing display. Rising in turn, her head held high like the queen she felt like just at this moment, she said, “Lay on, MacGruff.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, even as he took her hand. She loved both actions, although she had to say, “I thought you weren’t a hand-holding person this go.”

“I’m not. But I’m with you now,” he said, and squeezed her fingers. She thought about mentioning she’d been holding his hand when he’d said the irritating thing; she thought better of it. Bless, he was trying so hard.

The Tardis was still taking up a great deal of the restaurant’s antechamber, but apparently the Doctor had paid off the hostess, and only smiles accompanied them inside. Which in itself was suspicious. “Where did you get money, Doctor, to pay for this evening?” she said, as she slipped off her wrap and hung it on the railing.

“Hacked your account – not the one where you deposited your newest wad of filthy lucre, but the one you opened after Byzantium.” He grinned as he began to lead her to an upper level. “You know I’m not good with money. Share and share alike, wife.”

“You hacked my account. Seriously?”

“In fact I’ve robbed a bank since I last saw you,” he said smugly. “I’ve a real talent for it.”

“You’re a veritable Robin Hood, I’m sure,” she said, and smoothed a hand across his shoulder. The solidity of him, the reality of him, she found inexpressibly comforting.

Also, being that close, she could feel the reverberations from his extremely Scottish sound of disdain. “That idiot,” he said, his voice dripping with scorn. “I mean, he’s real enough, but still. Bit of an arse. A show-off.”

“You of course wouldn’t know anything about that,” she said, with a fairly dramatic eye-roll of her own.

He made that Scottish noise again – gods, it was endearing – and then caught her hand and brought it to his lips. It was just a light kiss brushed against her palm, but she felt those reverberations too, inside and out. The sensation of his touch was familiar and yet so deliciously different.

This face and body had a fair amount of self-control, she suspected. And oh, what she could do to a man with that particular gift.

He dropped her hand then. Made a face, self-deprecating yet eager. “So, right, may I show you something?”

She slipped her now free hand under his loose jacket. His shirt was fine under her fingers, his skin warm under that. “Show me anything you like, darling. As previously discussed, I’m waiting to see your new body before making any judgments.”

He flushed just a little, but not nearly as much as his previous incarnations, which was interesting and encouraging. “We’ll get to that in a bit. This is something else. Have a seat.”

She dropped down into a conveniently placed armchair – she was going to have to find out if he’d had some decorators in, or if this was another new talent. “I don’t do well with delayed gratification,” she announced.

“Yes, you do,” he said with a grin over his shoulder. Then, the grin disappearing like smoke, “You’ve had to, being with me. I’m sorry, River.”

“We’re _fine_ , Doctor. Not another word on that subject,” she said, blinking furiously, “unless you want our second domestic of the night.”

“I expect we’ll have plenty,” he said gently. “We have the time.” Before she could respond, he said more sharply, “Now close your eyes.”

Obedient – well, obedient-ish – she did. In the friendly dark, in the privacy of her mind, she could let herself breathe. She’d kept busy after Manhattan, she had her own life, but always she’d felt the ache of loss somewhere deep inside; her parents gone, her husband off grieving on his own. The ache had gone, dissolved into memory by his presence, his touch, his words. Dissolved by the music.

For a moment she didn’t realize that she was hearing _actual_ music – an electric guitar, a plangent solo that was playing… playing the song of the Towers. She opened her eyes.

Her husband, who now wasn’t wearing jacket or tie and whose immaculate white shirt was open at the throat, stood a few feet away. It was he who played the guitar, his long fingers dancing over the strings, his eyes on her.

She swallowed hard. “This is new,” she said, and even to herself her voice seemed nothing but loving all the way down. “And after you fussed so when I asked you to take me to Glastonbury that one summer.”

“ _Coldplay_ ,” he said Scottishly. “And also that stray Zygon we found in the caterer’s tent, but – do you want to listen or not?”

She kicked off her high heels and curled up more comfortably in the chair. “I want to listen, darling,” she said. “You amaze me.”

His smile – oh, his smile was _glorious_. It was a sunset on a night that would last years and years, it was an overture to everything.

He played on. He played the song of the Towers, and the Tardis harmonized, and River smiled without any aches or dissembling.

She was home, and she was loved.


End file.
